


someone will remember us

by portraitofire



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/F, Falling In Love, Heartache, in the middle of the ocean, titanic but make it portrait of a lady on fire, what could go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28404432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofire/pseuds/portraitofire
Summary: A tale of two women who fall in love and fall apart.alternately, titanic but make it portrait of a lady on fire.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 43





	1. prologue.

It had been ten years. They had taken their time of slipping by; weighted with a messy sprawl of therapies, painting sessions, and lovers. Through the thick of each sleepless night and sweaty, tangled nightmare, Marianne had found herself in total and complete loss. There was no healing that could stitch back the wound in her body: the large, gaping crater created by grief. And yet, she had continued to spill through chapped lips her messy brokenness to psychoanalysts, prostitutes and painters, none of whom came close to understanding. At a certain point, she simply stopped. Her story became something silent, sheltered deep within her that she refused to reveal to a single soul. It was hers and hers alone.

At the end of the tenth, staggering year, something colossal shifted. Marianne saw her one last time.

The New York Times had published an article for the ten year anniversary remembering those who had sunk with the Titanic. Journalists and researchers had compiled a portrait of each fallen passenger. Marianne’s gaze had raked the list, her hands trembling so hard, she was afraid she’d accidentally tear the fragile paper. Of course, there were many whose names were not accompanied with a photograph. Either they had never had the chance to be photographed, or didn’t have the funds. Nevertheless, their names appeared with a blank space, an emptiness that left Marianne’s mouth tasting stale. She clenched the newspaper tighter, hoping desperately that the name she was searching for would not be followed with a white space.

Finally, she stumbled across the familiar, beloved name and her heart lurched to a stop. There was a small, black and white photograph next to it. It was slightly unfocused and possibly crooked, but it came closer to capturing her than any sketch Marianne had ever made. Her lips were unsmiling, simply quirked so finely in the corners as though they carried the hint of an unsaid secret. 

Marianne shakily sat down. She held the paper in her lap, and tried to avoid any of her tears from falling near Héloïse’s portrait, as she didn’t want the ink to run and risk blurring it even further. 

If anyone had taken a glimpse through her window at that moment, they would have seen her pale, tear striped face and her lips moving silently to herself, repeating over and over the two words: “My love.”


	2. Chapter 2

**  
**

April 12, 1912

**  
**

A sharp, spring breeze whipped Marianne’s hair into a frenzy as she pounded against the cobblestone. Her skirt flew crudely between her legs but she didn’t bother to worry about it. An ecstatic surge of joy was soaring through her chest; she felt invincible.  
Her fist tightened on the sweaty, rumpled ticket as she clenched her teeth and hoped against hope that she would make it. Beside her, Sophie ran with equal amounts of glee and panic. The two women dodged automobiles, men in top hats, and servants carrying their weight in luggage. In Marianne’s head, she could picture the clock ticking down, her final grasp at freedom only minutes from escaping forever . . .  
Only a quarter of an hour earlier, Marianne had been sitting in a dim parlour, playing poker with several Swedish men. With hard, cruel eyes they had stared at her, likely believing that she would be easy money. They had been wrong. When the third class ticket for the Titanic had been added to the winner’s lot, Marianne had known there was no way she was leaving without it. And so she’d won.  
Unfortunately, if the clock in the parlour had been correct, she and Sophie only had another minute to board the ship.  
They lurched around an abrupt corner and raced towards the thick outline that towered against the sky. Referring to it as a ship seemed like an overstatement. It was the biggest thing Marianne had ever seen. Unfortunately, she wasn’t awarded much time to gape, and all she could do was run more frantically. Her breathing came in short, panicked gasps and her bag of meager belongings thudded viciously against her side. Soon, it would all be over. She’d be on board the mammoth of a ship, setting off into a new life, or watching everything slip away into the horizon.  
Things weren’t looking too good. Members of the crew cast wary, final glances over the bustling crowd of onlookers. They prepared to close the entrances.  
“Wait!” Marianne cried urgently. Sophie, next to her, called out the same.  
They increased their speed and raced up the ramp to the third class entryway. Marianne raised her hand and waved it in the air to reveal the ticket she held.  
A crewmate swung out his solid arm and barred the way. “I’ll need to see that ticket in more detail, ma’am,” he muttered darkly.  
Marianne thrust it at him and panted furiously. “It’s as real as it could be.”  
After a moment of examination, he nodded. “Alright, carry on.” He moved out of the way and shot her a final, unimpressed look but Marianne couldn’t possibly be bothered as she surged ahead.  
She was on the Titanic. As far as she was concerned, nothing could bring her down. 

The ship was a jumbled collision of narrow hallways leading to endless twists and  
turns. Marianne began to feel dizzy before she even found her room. The ticket read  
Room 60 on G-deck, which was a whole lot of mumbo jumbo, if you wanted her opinion. Fortunately, Sophie had a better sense of direction and after a quick spell becoming acquainted with their cabinmates (a short, portly woman and her unbecoming sister), the two women rushed with giddying speed to the upper deck. They shoved their way through the bustle of excited passengers and made their way to the edge of the ship. Marianne lurched against the railing, clasping tightly to the sturdy surface as her gaze swept across the sea of blurry, nameless faces below. Sophie launched her hand into the air and began waving wildly to those below.  
“What are you doing? You don’t know anyone,” Marianne said.  
“That doesn’t matter!”  
A slow smile came to greet the edges of Marianne’s lips. After a temporary moment of hesitation, she too threw her hand into the air and began to wave brazenly at those cheering below. Her face split into a large grin, unable to restrain herself. She felt uncontrolled and liberated; an eagle caught in a graceful breeze, sweeping the horizon with its wings.

The Titanic set sail promptly at twelve p.m. There were approximately two thousand, two hundred and twenty passengers on board.

* * *

The warm sun spilled across Marianne’s concentrated lips. She held a small piece of charcoal in her hand; her fingertips were dusty and creased with black. Her notepad was positioned in her lap so she could easily sketch while assessing her fellow passengers around her. She drew careful lines here and there, crafting the figure of a mother breastfeeding her child. Slowly, the details were coming together, blossoming into something beautiful. The swell of a pale breast, the puckered lips of a small enfant, the hair strewn across the tired mother’s forehead. The finished product, if painted, would be beautiful.  
Marianne shifted in her seat, shooting another glance at the physical version of the mother and her baby, then added finer details; the shading of her eyelids, the folds in her scarf, the baby’s curled fingernails. The two were a beautiful pairing.  
She was settled on a bench overlooking the small area at the stern of the ship. It was relatively quiet here, peaceful even, as the other third class passengers roamed other parts of the ship— that they had access to, at least.  
The Titanic had been sailing for over an hour now, and yet there was still an electric joy in Marianne’s veins that had stuck with her. The salty taste in the breeze, the knots tormenting her dark hair, the sound of crashing waves thudding against the hull: it was a remedy like no other. Marianne was ready to leave her old world behind, once and for all. And what better mode of escape than the RMS Titanic, the most famous ocean liner in all of history?  
Marianne, her fingers sore, glanced up from her painting and stretched her gaze towards the B deck promenade.  
It was then that she saw her.  
A woman, standing neatly, her hands pressed firmly together and her eyes piercing the waves behind the ship. She wore a dress of emerald green and her hair, a dusty blonde, wisped lazily in tendrils at her neck. She was beautiful. And Marianne was riveted, overcome with a sudden, fervent rush of adoration. Her breathing fluttered in her throat.  
But the most remarkable thing, the sight that found itself chiseled into Marianne’s eyelids evenings later as she fell asleep, was the look of absolute despair on the woman’s features. Her lips were deep and solid with sadness, her nose carved of tears, and her eyes seemed as though they were from a painting built from tragedy.  
Marianne was unable to look away. The woman stood leagues away, overlooking the third deck and the stern of the ship. Despite their distance, some prickle of being perceived must have passed from woman to woman, as though a letter being exchanged from one hand to another.  
The woman returned the look. It was temporary, halting, meaningless. But for a moment, in between inhales, Marianne’s gaze was fully and unequivocally returned. It didn’t seem to matter that the woman looked away with what seemed like distaste, a frown puncturing her lips. Marianne was immobile with a sudden, charged emotion coursing under her skin.  
A man walked towards the woman and took her arm, but it was quickly jerked away from him. The sound of their voices was lost to the distance but Marianne could make out the anger in the woman’s body language as she moved past him and strode away, leaving Marianne feeling disjointed as though she had lost an arm.

When night fell, Marianne couldn’t find it within herself to join Sophie for dinner. Her stomach was tangled with sentiments far different than that of hunger. She lay on the hard, cold bench and chain-smoked while she watched the stars slowly appear, peppering the midnight sky. She was entirely alone; the way she preferred it.  
Her thoughts, slow and steady as they were, were suddenly shattered with the intrusion of quick, light footfalls on the deck, and the swish of fabric as a woman raced past Marianne. She sat up almost at once, quizzically attempting to comprehend the unfolding scene before her.  
The same woman Marianne had seen before ran violently to the stern of the ship and slammed into the flagpole, her arms wrapping around it as though to support herself. Deep, heaving sobs fought through her body. There was no other sound in the night but her anguish and the waves far below. Marianne slowly stood, unsure how to react.  
In a sudden, shocking burst of movements, the woman hiked up her velvet green dress and carefully clambered over the ship’s railing. She messily arranged herself so her back was pressed against the railing, her knuckles taut as she gripped onto the slick surface.  
Marianne found herself moving almost instantaneously, her throat cold with surprise and panic, deeply shaken by what was happening. She stopped several paces behind the woman’s shaking form.  
“Don’t do it,” Marianne said. Her voice was casual, calm and collected— everything that she wasn’t.  
The woman’s head tore around in an attempt to see the disembodied voice. “Stay back! Don’t come any closer!” Her voice, on the other hand, was panicked, scared and pained.  
“Take my hand. I’ll pull you back in,” Marianne extended a gentle hand.  
“No! Stay where you are. I mean it. I’ll let go.”  
Marianne hesitated, inhaling sharply, then, “no you won’t.”  
The woman sputtered with fury. “What do you mean no I won’t? Don’t presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don’t know me.”  
“You would have done it already. Now come on, take my hand.”  
There was a charged pause, the woman’s desperate, crazed exhales and sniffles accompanying the profound silence. She broke it just as suddenly. “You’re distracting me. Go away.”  
“I can’t. I’m involved now. If you let go, I have to jump in after you.” Marianne spoke casually, a light indifference in her tone as she removed her thick jacket. The cold evening bit into her skin but she let it loosely fall from her shoulders like a shrug.  
“Don’t be absurd. You’ll be killed.” There was surprise in the woman’s voice. Evidently, nobody had shown her such lighthearted compassion before.  
“I’m a good swimmer.” Marianne crouched down and began untying her shoelaces.  
“The fall alone would kill you.”  
“It would hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t. To be honest, I’m a lot more concerned about the water being so cold.” She wrenched off her shoe and let it fall onto the deck.  
The woman looked away, appearing stony and dignified, but there was a tremble in her lower lip, before she asked, “how cold?”  
“Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over. It’ll hit you like a thousand knives all over your body. You won’t be able to breathe, think, … ‘least not about anything but the pain.” She removed her undercoat, revealing a loose, white collared shirt tucked into a long skirt. The top buttons had become undone, showing a small blossom of skin across her chest. “Which is why I’m not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I said, I don’t see a choice.” She made eye contact with the woman, an electric current racing through her veins.  
“You’re crazy.”  
“That’s what everyone says,” Marianne replied, the hint of a smile touching her lips as she remembered the aghast expressions on people’s faces when she’d worn trousers and suspenders or had painted nude portraits of women. She’d always been full of surprises to those who stuck to the ordinary. She slowly slid closer to the woman. “With all due respect, miss, _I’m_ not the one hanging off the back of the ship here.” She paused. “Come on. Give me your hand. You don’t want to do this.”  
Marianne’s hand was extended, hovering next to the woman’s twisted form. There was a tormenting moment where it seemed as though they’d be there all night, then the woman slowly turned, her hand finding Marianne’s. The physical contact sent a surge of warmth up Marianne’s arm as she fastened her grip more firmly on the woman and helped her to turn around. The two women stood close together for a second, hair tangled in the breeze, and lips parted with relief, only the railing seperating them.  
“I’m Marianne Dawson.”  
“Héloïse DeWitt Bukater.”  
Marianne’s lips unfurled into a bemused smile. “I’m gonna have to get you to write that one down.”  
Héloïse chuckled, despite herself.  
“Come on,” Marianne murmured.  
Héloïse was lifting a foot to find purchase on the railing when, like a flash of lightning, everything derailed. Her foot landed on the hem of her dress and immediately slipped entirely from the railing. She let out a shattering scream as she plummeted downwards. Marianne was jerked along with her to the edge of the rail. Héloïse’s free hand grasped at the railing desperately, face distorting in fear.  
“Come on!” Marianne groaned, her arm wrenched in pain, quivering as she pulled desperately at Héloïse’s writhing body. Both of her arms held firmly to Héloïse’s hand now, as she heaved with all her might, leaning dangerously over the railing.  
Yet again, Héloïse sought purchase on the slick railing, lost her footing and tumbled further, her feet twisting above the black waves below.  
“Help! Please!” Her piercing screams rattled Marianne’s brain at such close distance.  
“Listen!” Marianne cried firmly. “Listen. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.” For an instant, the world quieted and there was a mutual exchange between their two frantic gazes— one of trust. “Now pull yourself up! Come on!”  
Marianne braced herself on the railing and continued to pull. With their combined efforts, through will and sheer desperation, Marianne pulled Héloïse over the edge and they toppled in a messy tangle to the ground, falling in such a way that Marianne winded up on Héloïse. There was the sound of quick, heavy steps as seamen raced to the scene.  
“What’s all this?”  
Marianne jerked upright, to her knees, as Héloïse lay panting, tear-stricken, her dress spread at odd angles around her legs.  
The men took in the scene: the shoes and jacket cast to the side, the look of terror on Héloïse’s face, Marianne on her knees.  
“You stand back!” came the fierce cry. “And don’t move an inch!”  
Marianne slowly got to her feet, wiping a strand of hair from her face as the man called out to his companions, “fetch the master at arms!”

* * *

There was the sound of chinking metal as handcuffs were placed around Marianne’s wrists.  
“Completely unacceptable! What made you think you could put your hands on my fiancé?” Héloïse’s fiancé, the strong, square jawed man Marianne had previously seen arguing with her on the upper deck, glared furiously at her. He was brimming with anger, veins bulging on his forehead.  
Marianne averted her gaze from his thrusting face and caught a glimpse of Héloïse over his shoulder, wrapped in blankets and trembling.  
The man grabbed Marianne roughly by the collar of her jacket. “Look at me, you filth! What did you think you were doing?”  
“Cal! Cal, stop!” Héloïse surged towards her fiancé, grabbing his arm. “It was an accident!”  
“An accident?” he sputtered.  
Marianne felt her insides churn with shock as she stared at Héloïse.  
“Stupid, really,” Héloïse continued. “I was leaning over and I slipped.”  
Marianne frowned slightly. She couldn’t see that lie holding much ground for itself.  
“I was leaning far over to see the, erhm, propellers and I slipped.”  
Marianne would have found her excuse at a lie downright funny, if not endearing, if only her hands weren’t pressed into shackles behind her back.  
“I would have gone overboard but Miss Dawson here saved me, and almost went overboard herself.”  
Héloïse snuck a fleeting look at Marianne who felt an involuntary smile fighting for recognition on her features but she swallowed it down.  
“She wanted to see the propellors,” Cal laughed shortly, unkindly.  
“Was that the way of it?” came the voice of the man holding Marianne in handcuffs. He wore a thick mustache and small, beady eyes. Marianne looked towards Héloïse who was silently, imploringly asking her not to reveal what had truly occurred.  
“Yes,” she spoke stiffly. “That was pretty much it.”  
“Well! The girl’s a hero then! Good for you, ma’am.”  
The man continued to speak but his words lost their value as Marianne shared a silent, knowing look with Héloïse, something like a secret passed between their unmoving lips.  
Marianne was gingerly uncuffed and Cal began to escort Héloïse to warmth and safety when the man who had previously spoken added in a low voice, “ah . . . perhaps something for the girl?”  
Cal turned. “Oh, right. I think a twenty should do it.” He nodded to the man who had discovered them, and said, “Lovejoy, take care of it.” He was about to leave once again when Héloïse scoffed lightly.  
“Is that the going rate for saving the woman you love?”  
“Héloïse is displeased. Mhmm, what to do . . .” he spoke smugly, glancing condescendingly at Marianne as she slid her arms into her worn coat sleeves once again. He turned to her. “Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening, to regale our group with your heroic tale?”  
Marianne looked to Héloïse. “Sure. Count me in.”  
“Good. Settled then.” He turned and began to depart, muttering under his breath to his companions, “this should be interesting.”  
Marianne found Héloïse’s gaze one last time, but the look failed to fill the void that the absence of her touch had left.  
Marianne pulled a cigarette from her pocket and slid it in between her teeth, hoping to take the edge off of this bizarre, sharp night.  
Just before leaving, the man who had found Marianne and Héloïse in their uncouth position, Lovejoy, paused and regarded her with a dark look, his eyes flashing dangerously. “It’s interesting. The young lady slipped so suddenly and yet you still had time to remove your jacket and your shoes.” His gaze was chilling as he finally turned to leave, leaving her deserted on the empty, dark deck.  
His final remark simmered like a warning in Marianne’s blood. She wasn’t sure how long Héloïse’s lie would last before her companions found out the truth.  
If there was one thing she knew, it was that Héloïse had wanted out. Marianne, too, knew the feeling of yearning for escape. But in a world built for caging women in, she could only wish on the far-off stars that they would get their happy endings.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen,” Marianne said as they strolled past   
first class passengers lounging on their deck chairs, turning the pages of a book or knitting. “Since my parents died.”  
Héloïse walked alongside her, wearing a coral blue dress that always managed to catch the light in a way that made it shimmer, like the surface of the ocean when the sun hit it just right. Marianne felt awkward in her rough clothes, a skirt that almost scraped the floor and her worn shirt. They were an odd, mismatched pairing and had earned several strange looks from passengers they’d passed. But it was Héloïse’s gaze that struck Marianne the hardest.  
Marianne felt her gaze often on her as they walked and made a point of only glancing at her in return when she was looking away.  
The breezy afternoon had been devoid of any energy before Héloïse had shown up out of the blue, cheeks tinged with a rosy pink and asked if they could take a walk. Sophie and their cabinmates had been shell-shocked as they watched Marianne go, having missed the encounter of last night and finding it bewildering that someone from first class was paying them any sort of attention. They had no idea of the event that had unfolded— in fact, nobody knew the whole truth but Marianne and Héloïse.  
They’d since been wandering for a half hour as Marianne spoke about her personal life. All the while, she had barely gleaned a fact about Héloïse.  
“I haven’t been back home since. You could call me a tumbleweed blowing in the wind.”  
There was a low chuckle in response.  
Marianne glanced at her companion. “Well, Héloïse, we’ve walked about a mile around this boat deck and chewed over how great the weather’s been and how I grew up, but I reckon that’s not why you came to talk to me, is it?”  
She turned to look at her as they walked and they made eye contact for the first time during their stroll.  
“Miss Dawson, I—”  
“Marianne,” she corrected her.  
“Marianne.” She seemed to test the name on her tongue before continuing. “I want to thank you for what you did. Not just for pulling me back but . . . for your discretion.”  
“You’re welcome.”  
“Look, I know what you must be thinking. Poor little rich girl, what does she know about misery?”  
Marianne stopped short. “No.” She stared at her, hard. “No, that’s not what I was thinking. What I was thinking was what could have happened to this girl to make her feel she had no way out?” She waited, wondering.  
“Well, I . . . It was everything.” And suddenly, she was impassioned, striding to the edge of the deck, her chest rising, “it was my whole world and all the people in it. And the inertia of my life, plunging ahead and me, powerless to stop it.” She raised her hand to Marianne and a ring caught the light, glittering boldly. An engagement ring.  
“My God,” Marianne breathed, a short laugh escaping her lips. “Look at that thing.” She reached out and touched the tips of Héloïse’s fingertips to examine it. “You would have gone straight to the bottom.”  
“Five hundred invitations have gone out. All of Philadelphia society will be there. And all the while, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs and no one even looks up.” Her chest was rising and falling in quick bursts now. Her eyes shone with tears.  
“Do you love him?” Marianne asked, letting the words slide so easily off her tongue, like butter.  
There was a flash of fury in Héloïse’s upset eyes. It reminded Marianne of the previous night, the passionately fueled anger as she lashed out at Marianne for trying to help her.  
“Pardon me?” Héloïse replied testily.  
“Do you love him?” Marianne was bolder now, strengthened by Héloïse’s response.  
Héloïse opened her mouth, aghast. “You’re being very rude. You shouldn’t be asking me this.”  
“Well, it’s a simple question. Do you love the guy or not?”  
Héloïse scoffed with disgust, shaking her head, half laughing with derision. “This is _not_ a suitable conversation.”  
“Why can’t you just answer the question?” Marianne laughed back.  
Héloïse laughed outright and slapped a hand to her forehead, “This is absurd. You don’t know me and I don’t know you and we are _not_ having this conversation at all.” She bit her bottom lip, turning away.  
Marianne was suddenly struck by the way her ash blonde hair fluttered against her forehead and escaped its pinnings along her neck. How she bit her lips when she was embarrassed. How she stared, unblinking, with a sort of fury at everything within her sight.  
Héloïse continued brazenly. “You are rude and uncouth and presumptuous and I am leaving now.” She shoved her hand out to shake Marianne’s, who all the while was smiling broadly despite herself. “Miss Dawson, it’s been a pleasure. I sought you out to thank you and now I _have_ thanked you, —”  
“And you’ve insulted me,” Marianne interrupted bemusedly.  
“Well, you deserved it.”  
“Right.” Marianne was holding back laughter.  
“Right!”  
Both continued to shake each other’s hands, even as momentary silence fell.  
Marianne was enjoying herself far too much. “I thought you were leaving.”  
“I am,” Héloïse turned, and made as if to leave, then whirled back around again. “You are so annoying!” she cried shrilly.  
Marianne let out a laugh.  
“Wait! I don’t have to leave, this is _my_ part of the ship.” She pointed dramatically, and fiercely, to the exit. “ _You_ leave.”  
“Well, well, well,” Marianne laughed. “Now who’s being rude?”  
Héloïse scoffed yet again, but was lost for words. She grabbed Marianne’s sketchbook from under her arm. “What is this stupid thing you’re carrying around?” She furiously opened it to a random page and stared at it angrily. “So what are you, an artist or something?” She rifled through them busily. “These are rather good,” she admitted.  
Marianne watched bemusedly, and followed her as she trailed towards a deck chair.  
“They’re, uh, very good, actually.”  
They sat on a deck chair as Héloïse opened to the sketch Marianne had drawn of a mother breastfeeding her child. She shot Marianne a look. “This is exquisite work,” she breathed. Her tone had lost its metal edge, the ferocity bleeding away to admiration.   
“Ah, well, they didn’t think too much of it in ‘ol Paris.”  
“Paris?”  
Marianne nodded.  
“You do get around for a p—” she broke off suddenly, “well, for a person of your limited means.”  
“Go on. You can say poor,” Marianne chuckled.  
Héloïse turned the page to reveal a nude portrait of a woman. A cigarette dangled languorously from her full lips, her body stretched lazily across the page. The drawing had a soulful air to it, something incandescent and human about it. She turned the page and several more nude sketches along the same line followed. They were almost uncomfortably intimate and Héloïse visibly blushes.  
“Well, well, well,” she tuts softly as she gazes at them. “And these were drawn from life?”  
Marianne nodded, feeling bashful and yet coy, intermingled at once. “That’s one of the good things about Paris. Lots of girls willing to take their clothes off.”  
Héloïse looked at Marianne sharply, the unspoken context behind those words making themselves clear. Marianne was open and unreserved in her sexual identity, and at first Héloïse appeared to be affronted, but it quickly melted away and she chuckled at the comment. She turned the page to reveal a final portrait; one that was especially intimate. The woman’s features seemed to capture a seductive, dreamy charm.  
“You like this woman,” Héloïse remarked. “You used her several times.”  
“Well, she had beautiful hands, y’see?” Marianne flipped to a page displaying graceful, curving hands with long, elegant fingers.  
“I think you must have had a love affair with her,” Héloïse replied with a smirk.  
“No, no, no, no,” Marianne laughed. “Just with her hands. She was a one-legged prostitute.” As shock rippled across Héloïse’s features, Marianne pointed to another page. “See?”   
Héloïse opened her mouth in surprise, her lips curving into an ‘o’. They both chuckled.  
“Ah, she had a good sense of humor though. Oh, and this lady,” Marianne flipped to another page, displaying a woman, festooned with jewels. “She used to sit at this bar every night, wearing every piece of jewelry she owned just waiting for her long lost love. Called her Madame Bijou. See, her clothes are all moth-eaten.”  
Héloïse looked softly at Marianne and there was a subtle difference in the way she regarded her, as though something had shifted in her perception of her.  
“You have a gift, Marianne. You do. You _see_ people.” She spoke the words sincerely, with meaning.  
Marianne watched Héloïse tenderly. “I see you.”  
“And?”  
“You wouldn’t have jumped.”  
Héloïse’s lighthearted expression slipped off her features and she frowned, regarding Marianne seriously. There was an edge to her gaze that Marianne couldn’t place.

* * *

The afternoon coursed by. The two women spoke of many things, most of which were of no importance and were forgotten almost as soon as the conversation moved to another topic. Marianne was finding herself more and more enthralled with the woman in front of her; her flair for the dramatic, her arrogance, her beauty, her passion. Something entirely individual ran through Héloïse’s blood and Marianne wanted to know what.   
As the sun sunk beneath the horizon, casting shades of orange and pink across the Titanic, Héloïse said goodbye and left to prepare herself for dinner.  
Marianne trudged back to her room, thinking of the few, plain dresses she owned and wondering which would be the least embarrassing to wear.   
As she passed the barrier leading to the third class deck, she narrowly avoided bumping into a short, portly woman bustling ahead. Her appearance, dress and demeanor was entirely unmissable: she was “The Unsinkable Molly Brown”, of whom Héloïse had mentioned to her in a teasing undertone. Her hat was seven times larger than the circumference of her head, and her lips a deep cherry red.  
“Oh, hello,” she said cheerily in her infamous Missouri drawl, “that was a close one there, darlin’.”  
“Molly, is it?” Marianne asked, unable to stop herself from confirming.  
“Thas’ right, deario. Who might you be?”  
Marianne hesitated. “A friend of Héloïse’s. I’ll be joining her for dinner tonight.”  
The woman’s eyebrows jumped nearly a foot off her forehead. “Not in that, you won’t!”   
And so, Marianne found her arm gripped tightly by the warm, laughing woman as she was dragged to Molly’s luxurious stateroom. All the while, Molly declared, “I know just what will fit you!”

* * *

When it came time for dinner, Marianne’s stomach was in butterflies. She didn’t know a single thing about the lifestyle these people lived. One glance into Molly’s loaded walk-in closet was a clear enough indication of that.  
The marble steps shined as she slowly made her way down to the hall they would be dining in. Molly’s midnight blue evening dress fit her remarkably well, and yet she felt like a stranger in her own skin. She felt, for once, as though she blended in with the grandeur around her, like she could pass off as one of those with jewels around their necks and money under their name. But she wasn’t one of them and she never would be.   
Marianne paused at the bottom of the curving steps and took a moment to look around her and process all that she was seeing.  
The grand staircase curved elegantly, the banisters gilded with gold. There was a large, ornate clock on the wall above the staircase, like something from out of a storytale. The dining room itself glimmered hazily under the light of glistening chandeliers. The cutlery was polished, tablecloths freshly ironed and the smell of food wafted eternally through the wide, dazzling hall. Aboard the Titanic, every aspect of life had taken on a new air; a fresher, more enhanced quality. The sun had felt like a warm, gentle hand on her skin. The sheets had never been slept in before and felt like it. She could even smell the fresh paint on the walls. But this room, in its splendor, was something different. It was the third class dining room magnified by a thousand. It was the very foundation and definition of luxury.  
Marianne felt the sparse hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She turned, and her heart skipped a beat. Héloïse slowly descended the steps; her intense, shadowed eyes were riveting. She wore a glittering black dress, with crisp white gloves to her elbows. Her blonde hair was perfectly arranged, and Marianne almost missed the wisps. Héloïse seemed equally caught by surprise but Marianne couldn’t possibly imagine why.  
Marianne bent over and took Héloïse’s gloved hand and slowly raised it to her lips, like a gentleman would do, without breaking their connected gazes.  
“I saw that in a film once,” Marianne smiled dryly and Héloïse cracked up.   
Marianne held out her arm for Héloïse and began to escort her through the dining hall, as she had seen several gentlemen do minutes previously. She jutted out her chin in what was her best attempt at a “I am rich and snobby and have everything in the world” demeanor, which caused Héloïse to laugh again.  
They reached the group that they would be dining with and Héloïse reached out to touch Cal’s arm.  
“Darling, surely you remember Miss Dawson?”  
Cal stared at Marianne, then lifted his brows in amused shock. “Dawson?” he spluttered. “Why, that’s amazing. You could almost pass for a real woman.”   
Marianne’s jaw twitched angrily at his teasing, snobbish remark disguised as a compliment.  
“Almost,” she replied, clicking her tongue.  
They carried on, moving graciously to their dining table. All the while, Cal’s words stung beneath Marianne’s skin, irritating her. She pushed his words aside, and focused on the gentle touch of Héloïse’s arm in hers. There were more important things to take notice of tonight.  
Molly joined the pair of them, and immediately began chattering. Her tongue was in a constant state of unraveling. “Ain’t nothing to it, is there, Marianne? Remember, they love money, so jus’ pretend like you own a gold mine and you’re in the club.”  
Marianne wasn’t sure how far pretending would go, when surrounded by the richest people in the world, but she smiled and nodded anyway.  
Dinner was a long, languid affair, and Marianne felt her feet falling asleep under the table. There were almost a dozen people seated at the round table, glittering with rubies and laughing at limp jokes and shallow stories. Marianne was just beginning to tap her feet along the floor to wake them up when Cal spoke her name, in that ever mocking tone, disguised with formality.  
“Miss Dawson is joining us from the third class. She was of some assistance to my fiancé last night.”  
Quick to change the topic from the events of last night, Héloïse jumped in. “It turns out that Miss Dawson is quite a fine artist. She was kind enough to show me some of her work today.”  
“How do you take your caviar, ma’am?” asked a waiter, bending next to Marianne with the food in hand.  
“No caviar for me, thanks,” she replied. “Never did like it much.” Pokerfaced, she glanced at Héloïse, who looked down, suppressing a smile.  
“And where exactly do you live, Miss Dawson?” asked a woman from across the table, whose name Marianne had already forgotten.  
“Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I’m on God’s good humour.”  
“And how is it you have means to travel?”  
“I work my way from place to place, you know, tramp streamers and such. But I won my ticket on Titanic here in a lucky hand of poker. _Very_ lucky hand.” Her gaze shot to meet Héloïse’s.  
“And you find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?”  
Marianne felt Molly glowering angrily beside her. She swallowed and looked boldly back at the woman. “Well, yes, ma’am I do.” She paused. “I mean, I got everything I need right here with me. I’ve got the air in my lungs, a few blank sheets of paper. I love waking up in the morning not knowing what’s going to happen or,” she looked at Héloïse, “who I’m going to meet. I figure life’s a gift and I don’t intend on wasting it.” She took a sip of her champagne. “You never know what hand you’re going to get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you.” She slowed down her speech and pronounced each word with meaning. “To make each day count.”  
“Well said, Marianne,” Molly said proudly.  
“Hear, hear!” came an exclamation from across the table.  
Héloïse lifted her glass in the air. “To making it count.”  
Everyone around the table followed suit, raising their glasses and chorusing in harmony: “to making it count.”  
Marianne felt an odd stirring in her stomach. Not hunger, but another emotion altogether. Héloïse’s strong gaze on hers was no help.  
The rest of dinner crept by at an uncomprehendingly slow pace, and when it was at last time to leave, Marianne was quick to stand.  
“I’ve got to be heading back.”  
“Good of you to come, Miss Dawson,” Cal commented dryly as he moved away from the table with his fellow men.  
Marianne made her way to Héloïse.  
“Must you go?”  
“Time for me to go row with the other slaves,” Marianne joked. Then, more tenderly, “goodnight, Héloïse.” For the second time that evening, she lifted Héloïse’s hand to delicately kiss the back of it, but this time she passed a small, crumpled piece of paper into the other’s hand. She shot her a meaningful glance, then made her exit.  
The note had spoken the words:  
“make it count  
meet me at the clock!”  
Marianne wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a silly thought, really. To invite her like this. She’d thought she knew Héloïse well enough at this point, but her queasy stomach was indicating that she wasn’t so sure anymore. The grandfather clock chimed sullenly, a blaring testament to her foolhardiness.  
Finally, the sound of light footsteps hooked Marianne’s attention and she turned around to see Héloïse lifting her skirts as she walked up the stairs to join her.  
A relieved, and delighted smile pressed against her lips.  
“So, you want to go to a real party?”  
The noise was deafening. Marianne glanced at her as they descended the narrow stairway and entered the room, wanting to see the expression that accompanied her features. Instead of disdain or revulsion, Héloïse’s face lit up, and she looked around herself as though she wanted to absorb it all.  
It was a cacophony of musical instruments; loud, sonorous drums and energetic fiddles. People shouted, shrieked and laughed as they swung themselves around with their partners, their footfalls light and quick. The room was a sea of bobbing heads and dashing movements. Large mugs of beer were tossed down like apple cider.  
Marianne found Héloïse a spot to sit, then joined in the dancing. A little girl, maybe seven, was her partner and they twirled, whirled and dipped like a pair of naturals. Marianne had changed before waiting for Héloïse at the clock, and she wore a white shirt with the collar up, and suspenders.  
Shortly after, the song ended and raucous applause split through the air as everyone clapped and cheered for those who had been playing. Another song began, and Marianne made her way to the table where Héloïse sat, watching everything unfold. The young girl followed.  
“I’m going to dance with her now, all right?” Marianne said, motioning to Héloïse. “Come on!”  
Héloïse froze, her hands mid-clap and her look of joy rapidly dissolving. “What?”  
“Come with me,” Marianne grabbed Héloïse’s hand, and despite her avid protests of “wait! No, Marianne! No!”, pulled her into the tangle of sweaty bodies. They stood, in their own sheltered space between bodies.  
“I can’t do this,” Héloïse said seriously, panicked.  
“We’re going to have to get a little bit closer,” Marianne laughed dismissively, and her hand found Héloïse’s back and pulled her closer. “Like this.” Their faces were almost touching now, their hands interlocked. Marianne turned, noticing the small girl looking abandoned. “You’re still my best girl, Cora,” she reassured her.  
They began dancing. It was a fast, jolting dance, requiring footwork they both didn’t know.  
“I don’t know the steps!” Héloïse cried, her voice rising in pitch.  
“Neither do I, just go with it!”  
Héloïse laughed shrilly.  
“Don’t think!”  
She let out a shriek as they quickened their pace and began swirling around the room, rocking to and fro, releasing loud, buoyant, uncontrolled laughter.  
They ran in circles, arms looped together, then twirled around and did the same in the opposite direction. They wrapped their hands together, then leaned back and spun around in circles. They were dizzy, the room tilting and spinning around them, everything blurry and unfocused. They screamed. Héloïse’s hair hung in crazy, disjointed directions, sprawled and messy, but beautiful. She carried a slightly unkempt, and uncentered atmosphere, as though she was two steps away from losing her marbles. She smelled like ale and cigarettes and a heady, warm hint of lavender. It was intoxicating.

Marianne lost track of how many times she’d asked “are you all right?” to Héloïse as the night spun on around them. Her warm laughter danced in Marianne’s ears, like music. It was all so disjointed and disordered but there was a beauty to the chaos. A beauty to holding a woman close, lost in the fray of whose limb was whose, and laughing your head off for the hell of it.

They were unaware of being sighted from Lovejoy, Cal’s valet. Again, the withering, hard-edged man levelled his glare at them. Only they didn’t know. They didn’t know.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: minor mention of religion, homophobia

Marianne had always disliked Sundays. When her parents had been alive, it was  
the day that they all headed into the church down the street and sat on the stiff, wobbly  
pews and bent their heads in prayer. As a child, the only aspect of churchgoing she had  
liked was seeing the mosaic depiction of Jesus Christ. It was art in its purest, holiest form, and she’d always been drawn to art. When her knobbly knees pressed together in fear as the pastor began to yell at the congregation about sinning and virtue, all she had to do was look at the scattering of colours that composed his face, the blues, reds, yellows, oranges and browns.  
It was a bright, clear day. The waves tossed lazily against the side of the ship. Marianne leaned against the railing and watched the horizon with a tired, firm edge to her gaze. She couldn’t get last night out of her mind. Not just the dancing, but the dinner, the closeness of it all, the unmistakable shift in the energy between her and Héloïse. She wasn’t sure what it all meant but she knew what she wanted it to mean.  
She hadn’t seen Héloïse all morning, and although it was but a short time, she felt antsy to relieve some of her pent up emotions by discussing things with her. Just seeing her face for an instant would be enough.  
Marianne began moving before she knew where she was heading. It was only when she passed the barrier onto the first deck that she realized the first class passengers must be in their church service. It was deathly quiet. Goosebumps popped up on her skin at the thought of entering a church, even if it only meant a room aboard the ship, but she continued anyway. Now that she had a destination, she was closer to finding Héloïse and that was what mattered.  
The hallways were eerily silent. Stray, groggy passengers meandered here and there with unfocused eyes, clearly recovering from a night of drinking. Marianne stiffened as she walked past them, and she was given a stare in return: she wasn’t wanted here, that much was obvious.  
The morning sunshine dappled the wallpaper as Marianne slipped from room to room. She wasn’t sure where the ship’s church service was held but she was bound to find it soon enough. The maze of crisscrossing passageways was enough to make her head spin, but fairly soon after her search began, she made out the faint sound of voices singing.  
She rushed down a gilded staircase, and turned the corner, the sound mounting in her ears. Ahead of her lay a guarded double door entrance to what could only be the congregation. She moved towards it but was quickly intercepted by one of the two servants standing guard.  
“Ma’am, you’re not supposed to be in here,” one cried out in a pitchy, detestable voice.  
“I just need to talk to someone, for a second,” Marianne persisted, trying to move past his barred arm.  
The man’s voice seemed to rise in tone and pitch, the more agitated he became. “Ma’am, I can’t allow that, you’re not allowed—”  
“It’s just for a second, please,” she continued, her heart racing with frustration. “I was just here last night, you don’t remember me?”  
“No, I’m afraid I don’t, now you’re going to have to turn around . . .”  
The double doors opened to reveal Lovejoy, Cal’s faithful valet and the man who had muttered the ominous remark to her two nights ago. His frown seemed more pronounced than usual.  
“I just need to talk to—” Marianne began, but was quickly interrupted.  
“Now, Mr Hockley and Miss DeWitt Bukater continue to be appreciative of your assistance. They ask me to give you this in gratitude,” and he removed a twenty dollar bill from the inside of his jacket pocket.  
“I don’t want your money, please, I just—”  
She was yet again quickly interrupted by Lovejoy’s condescending manner.  
“I was also told to remind you that you hold a third class ticket and that your presence here is no longer appropriate.”  
Marianne was beginning to feel a rush of angry tears as her heart thudded in her chest. “Please, I just want to speak to Héloïse for _one_ second.”  
“Will you please see that Miss Dawson gets back to where she belongs and that she stays there,” Lovejoy commanded, passing the twenty dollar bill to the shocked servant.  
“Yes, sir,” came his awed voice and he rapidly turned to Marianne. “Come along, you.”  
She was nudged into movement and reluctantly allowed them to escort her back to the third class quarters. Her blood was boiling by the time she arrived at the familiar, sunsoaked deck.  
She stared out at the sea, eyes narrowed as she deeply drank in the salt-tinged air. It wasn’t right. She wanted to see Héloïse and nobody had the right to stop her. Her ticket wasn’t a reflection of anything worth knowing about her. First class passengers were proving themselves, more and more, to be absolute pricks. Héloïse was better than the whole lot of them combined.  
She tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat and decided, with a fresh burst of confidence, that she wouldn’t let them stop her.  
Marianne walked, as casual as one could be when walking in a stranger’s borrowed clothing. She had snuck over the railing with a helpful boost from Sophie and had snatched the first items of clothing she had seen deserted: a top hat and a long overcoat. It wasn’t as fine as disguises went but it allowed her to blend in with the sea of darkly cloaked men, who stunk of wealth and shallow mindedness.  
She had been lurking around the first class deck for half an hour now, hoping for a chance to see Héloïse. She could hear the sound of voices making their way towards her and she quickly leaned against a lifeboat attached to the edge of the deck and waited for them to pass.  
Suddenly, she made out the unmistakable sound of Héloïse’s voice, slightly haughty and impassioned, but genuinely sincere in its tone: “the number of lifeboats times the capacity you mentioned, forgive me, but it seems that there are not enough for everyone aboard.”  
“‘Bout half, actually,” came a deeper voice and Marianne could only assume it was the ship’s maker and architect himself, Thomas Andrews.  
The party slowly carried itself nearer and Marianne focused intently on looking to the west, not wanting to be seen until she chose the timing herself.  
“Sleep soundly, young Héloïse, I have built a good ship, strong and true,” their voices carried even nearer until they were directly passing Marianne, “she’s all the lifeboats you’ll need.” At that direct moment, the man, Andrews continued walking ahead of Héloïse at a strong pace and she lagged behind. It was the perfect opportunity.  
Marianne quickly walked up behind the group and tapped Héloïse on the arm. She turned around, and her eyes popped open with surprise. Marianne silently motioned for her to follow and they cut away from the group, ducking into an empty doorway just off the main passage. It was a rather spacious, sun splashed room and the two women were the sole occupants.  
“Marianne, this is impossible,” Héloïse began as Marianne closed the door behind them. “I can’t see you.” She began to break for the door again but Marianne grabbed her hand.  
“I need to talk to you,” she pressed urgently, her heart racing.  
There was something different in Héloïse’s demeanor, as though she was terrified of what they both knew had happened between them. It was though a light had been switched on. A kinetic energy pulsed between them, and it had been for some time, perhaps since the night Marianne saved Héloïse’s life. But they were both too afraid to recognize and label it.  
They were standing now, Héloïse’s back pressed against the wall next to the door and Marianne stood dejectedly with her hat in her hands.  
“Marianne, I’m engaged. I’m marrying Cal.” Héloïse paused. “I love Cal.” The words were meant to be matter of fact, but they fell loosely from her lips and neither of them believed it.  
Marianne sighed helplessly. “Héloïse. You’re no picnic, alright?” her eyes flashed with affection. “You’re a spoiled little brat, even. But under that, you’re the most amazingly astounding, wonderful girl, _woman_ , that I’ve ever known. And—”  
“Marianne,” Héloïse interrupted, turning away.  
“No, wait. Let me try and get this out.” Marianne’s voice rose with desperation and emotion. She fumbled for words. “I’m not an idiot. I know how the world works. I’ve got ten bucks in my pocket, I have _nothing_ to offer you and I _know_ that. I understand, but I’m too involved now.” She was almost as close to Héloïse now as she had been when they’d danced together. “You jump, I jump, remember? I can’t turn away without knowing you’ll be all right.” Then, in a softer voice, broken with something sweet and deep. “That’s all that I want.”  
“Well, I’m fine,” Héloïse replied demurely. “I’ll be fine, really.” She smiled emptily at this.  
“Really?” Marianne asked. Her voice was thick with concern now. “I don’t think so.” She punched the air with her index finger, “ _they_ ’ve got you trapped, Héloïse. And you’re going to die if you don’t break free, maybe not right away because you’re strong,” Héloïse’s eyes were glassy with tears and Marianne reached out to softly cup the side of her face in her hand, “but sooner or later that fire that I love about you, that fire is going to burn out.”  
There was a pause as Héloïse’s jaw flexed with emotion, her eyes glistening as Marianne’s thumb lightly grazed her cheek. “It’s not up to you to save me, Marianne.”  
“You’re right. Only you can do that.”  
Their faces were less than an inch apart, and their gazes flitted from lips to eyes, a hesitating, sweet swollen tremor in between them, waiting. Héloïse lifted a gloved hand to grasp that of Marianne’s hand on her cheek. Her breathing was slow and sharp with pain. “I’m going back. Leave me alone.” Her voice had shaken as she said it, but she whipped out of Marianne’s gentle touch and yanked the door open, fleeing.  
Marianne’s hand trailed against the windowpane as Héloïse’s figure departed, smoky and unclear in the ripple-glass window.  
She felt deserted, abandoned and used. But above all, she simply felt alone.  
Dinner that evening was tasteless and bland, devoid of flavor. Marianne twirled  
her fork along the edge of her plate, lost in thought.  
“Are you all right?” Sophie asked.  
Marianne looked up, then managed a nod. “I will be.”  
She didn’t eat much, and as soon as she was able, escaped outdoors. She walked  
slowly towards the bow of the ship. A light wind was blowing, and the sun was setting  
majestically in the distance. A collision of pinks and purples miraged into something akin  
to a painting. Marianne leaned against the mast and regarded it, with little passion. Her thoughts drifted to that morning and the dismissive way Héloïse had left her. Was that what she deserved for confessing her love? They both knew that what they shared was unacceptable to some, but it was the most real thing aboard. Why had Héloïse become so scared? What had happened in-between the previous night and that morning?

Marianne was unaware of the breakfast Héloïse had shared with Cal that morning. Lovejoy had reported to Cal of their trip to the third class party, and he was furious. The shattered teacups and ornate plates on the floor were evidence of that, swept by his hand as easily as swatting a fly. He’d shaken with rage and ordered Héloïse never to do anything like that again.  
“You will honor me, as a wife is required to honor her husband! I will not be made out a fool! Is that in any way unclear?” he had raged.  
Héloïse, shrinking back from his fury, felt truly afraid of him for the first time in their relationship. She lost part of herself to the fear; the fear of man, the fear of not loving men and the consequences that befell those who didn’t.  
What she needed was time. Just a fraction of it, to help her see there was more reason to be afraid of a future with Cal than with following her heart.  
Unfortunately, time was not part of their agenda that day. Maybe it was a quiet voice in her head, or the goosebumps on one’s arms that tell you something is off, but whatever it was that indicated it, she seemed to know they didn’t have much of it and she was no longer willing to waste it being afraid.

Marianne was hunched against the bow’s railing, at the very tip of the ship. The chill wind combed against her skin, her cheeks flushed with colour. She was alone, and for one of the first times in her life, she no longer enjoyed the feeling. Solitude had been a pleasant friend of hers for years but after the previous couple days, its taste had grown stale.  
“Hello, Marianne.”  
She whirled around in a snap, her heart lurching in her chest.  
Héloïse stood, a small smile on her lips. The wind arched the hair from her face in a frizzed halo of blonde, and her deep blue eyes shined helplessly. “I changed my mind.”  
Marianne felt an uncontrolled smile take force of her lips, splitting them wide.  
“They said you might be up here,—” Héloïse began but Marianne interrupted her with a soft “shh.” She’d placed a finger to her lips, then added softly, “give me your hand.”  
Héloïse reached out and Marianne took her hand, bringing her slowly to her. “Now close your eyes.” Héloïse hesitated. “Go on.” She did so. “Now, step up.” Marianne guided her up to the very apex of the railing. “Now hold onto the railing. Keep your eyes closed, don’t peek.”  
“I’m not.”  
They stood at the very front of the ship. The wind whipped pleasantly against their bodies, awash in the colours of dusk.  
“Now, climb onto the railing.” Héloïse trembled slightly as Marianne helped her onto the railing, her feet no longer on steady ground. Marianne climbed up behind her. “Hold on. Keep your eyes closed.” Marianne placed her hands on Héloïse’s waist, their two bodies pressed against each other as they leaned against the railing. Marianne lowered her mouth to Héloïse’s ear. “Do you trust me?”  
“I trust you.”  
Marianne took Héloïse’s arms, and slowly opened them up, lifting them to the sky like the wings of an eagle. Héloïse smiled, unsure, but unafraid.  
Marianne murmured into Héloïse’s ear, “alright, open your eyes.”  
Héloïse opened them. There was a gasp. There was nothing in her field of vision but the wide expanse of ocean, no ship at all, just them. Each movement since her first step onboard had accelerated to this, to the breathtaking glory of this precise moment. Her skin was raw in the breeze, tingling at every touch, and the entire world spanned out in front of them, a brilliant, dusty pink.  
“I’m flying,” she gasped.  
Marianne spread her arms alongside Héloïse’s, messily weaving her fingers through hers. Her face was placed directly next to Héloïse’s, almost in the crook of her neck, and she began speak-singing in a low, lilting voice next to her ear. “ _Come, Josephine, in my flying machine, going up, she goes, up she goes_.”  
Héloïse closed her eyes and pressed gently into Marianne. She took Marianne’s arms and slowly draped them around herself, then turned to look at her. Their faces were so close, their noses brushed against each other, each inhale carefully measured by the space in-between the others lips. Marianne gradually tipped closer, their eyes both closing by instinct, until there was nothing separating them. They kissed, slowly and tumultuously, and then with building passion.  
Their actions were intrinsic, automatic, as though they were built for the express purpose of loving each other.  
They soared onward into a night with no fear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: implied sex

“This is the sitting room. Will the lighting do?”  
“What?”  
The two women had entered Héloïse’s stateroom only moments before, laughing and dizzy, their heads whirling with the cold air and the beautiful magic of existence. Marianne looked around the room with interest, her gaze trailing from ornate object to object, entirely absorbed by the wealth that each item held. She could barely imagine possessing so many things.  
“Don’t all artists need good light?” Héloïse asked. Marianne could feel her gaze on her as she ventured around the room exploringly.   
“Zat eez true, but I am not used to working in such _‘orreeble_ conditions,”   
Marianne replied jokingly, in a horrible impression of a French accent as she wiped her   
finger along the top of a dresser and pretended as though there was dust.  
A painting from across the room caught Marianne’s notice and she let out an awestruck whisper, “Monet!”  
“Do you know his work?” Héloïse asked.  
Marianne crouched in front of the painting. “Oh, of course.” Her voice was full of rapture as she gazed at the painted pond, waterlilies bobbed in the peaceful green water. She’d seen his work in galleries before, but never this up close and intimate. She reached out and gently brushed her fingertips against an especially vibrant lilypad. “Look at his use of colour here, isn’t he great?”  
“I know, it’s extraordinary.”  
Marianne didn’t allow herself to linger long as they had other plans for the evening.  
Héloïse moved to another room and removed a small safe from the dresser. She began twisting the lock, aligning it with the proper set of numbers. “Cal insists on carting this hideous thing everywhere,” she said across her shoulder, to Marianne who was waiting from a distance.  
“Will we be expecting him anytime soon?” Marianne asked casually.   
“Not as long as the cigars and brandy hold out,” Héloïse replied as she returned from the adjacent room with a small box in her arms. From out of it, she removed the largest jeweled necklace Marianne had ever seen.   
“ _Jesus_ ,” she murmured appreciatively, holding the fat, gleaming jewel. “What is it, a sapphire?”  
“A diamond. A very rare diamond.”  
Marianne shook her head as she admired the blue, multifaceted jewel, shaped into a heart. It must have cost more than even the richest nobles in France would care to pay. She twisted it delicately in her hands, watching as the light reflected off of it. Héloïse stood next to her, apparently entirely unimpressed by the necklace.  
“Marianne, I want you to draw me like one of your french girls. Wearing this.” came Héloïse’s voice in her ear.  
Marianne nodded mutely, murmuring an “all right”, lost in the jewel’s beauty.  
“Wearing _only_ this.”  
Marianne blinked, jerked back to reality, and her gaze slid to meet Héloïse’s.

They didn’t waste a moment.  
The living room was a heavily cushioned and comfortable space, but there were still adjustments to be made. Marianne began to prepare, dragging a couch to a spot in the middle of the room where the light was best and rearranged the cushions, while Héloïse began undressing in her bedroom. Marianne removed her jacket, feeling too warm, and felt much more comfortable wearing only her shirt and trousers.  
Already, she was beginning to sink into her ‘artist mode’, all frowns and focus. She pulled up a chair for herself, and began to organize her tools: a sheaf of paper, and her pencils.  
Héloïse appeared in the doorway, wearing a long, black kimono, the silk draped elegantly across her form. Marianne, who was sharpening her pencil, looked up and felt her heart stutter in her chest. Héloïse twirled the sash and lifted a brow seductively. Her blonde hair was loose, and fell openly down across her shoulders.  
“The last thing I need is another picture of me looking like a porcelain doll,” she said as she approached Marianne. She held out a small coin. “As a paying customer, I expect to get what I want.” There was a teasing lilt to her voice as she tossed the coin into Marianne’s lap and took a few steps backward until she’d reached the couch. Marianne’s heart was pounding. She’d seen women naked before, hell, she’d slept with women before, but this was entirely different. Everything about Héloïse had caused Marianne to feel differently.  
Héloïse slowly parted the silk kimono, slipping it from her shoulders and allowing it to fall loosely to the ground. The heavy necklace hung between the swell of her cream breasts. Her body was a hazy, beautiful glow as the lamplight caught its angles, and curves, each inch of warm skin exposed.  
Marianne’s breathing fluttered nervously as she stared up at Héloïse. She swallowed, forcing herself to gain some composure. “Over on the bed,” she stuttered, “the couch.”  
Héloïse moved to the couch and Marianne shifted in her seat. She was always professional when capturing nude portraits, and yet, she couldn’t escape the thrum of pressure in her stomach, the aching for Héloïse. She nodded as Héloïse laid down and began positioning herself.   
“Tell me when it’s right.”  
“Put your arm back there, where it was, yes. Put that other arm, that hand, right by your face,” she imitated the gesture, and Héloïse mirrored it gracefully. “That’s it. Now, head down, eyes to me, keep them on me.” She shifted her notepad in her lap, exhaling the pent up breath she’d locked in her throat. “And try to stay still.”  
Marianne studied the page, the vast white space, then the elegantly draped Héloïse, positioned along the edge of the couch, facing her. The first line was always the hardest. She brought the pencil to the page, her fingers nervous and hesitating, then connected it to the paper, beginning her first sketch. All fear and worry quickly melted away like dripping, liquid gold. Her eyes narrowed and she lost herself. To each tremor of the pencil against the page, each shadow and line. Héloïse was not just a body, or a subject, but an artefact. A reminder of each and every beautiful thing in the world worth drawing, worth loving, and worth living for.  
“So serious,” Héloïse teased.  
The lines appeared in surer, more defined strokes as Marianne continued, her confidence rising. Hair fell into her eyes and she began sweating, but all went unnoticed as her focus remained on Héloïse.  
“I believe you’re blushing, Mr Big Artiste. I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing.”  
She looked up over her notepad. “He does landscapes,” she muttered irritably, but with a real smile, and a more fervent blush to match.   
The time passed dreamily slow in the golden haze of lamplight, as Héloïse’s figure began to take form across the page. It would never equal the real, physical beauty it aimed to capture but it came close. 

Marianne held the finished drawing in her hands. Héloïse, who was now wearing her black kimono again, had leaned over her shoulder to look. Marianne etched her signature onto the bottom corner, then closed it and handed it to Héloïse.  
“Thank you,” she murmured, an elegant, pleased smile on her lips. Their eyes met and Héloïse leaned in, their lips meeting. 

Meanwhile, on another part of the ship, Cal angrily paced in the dining hall. “There’s only so many places she can be.” He turned to his valet. “Lovejoy, find her.”  
Marianne was draped out of a hallway window, her arms placed on the windowsill. The cold night air blew through her hair and she smiled contentedly. She never wanted to forget this night, not in a thousand years. And the truth was, she never would.  
Finally, she left and reentered the stateroom, just as Héloïse entered from her bedroom. “It’s getting cold,” Marianne said, huffing warm air into her cupped hands.  
Héloïse was wearing a new dress Marianne hadn’t seen yet; the dress was a combination of a pastel blue and violet, with a pink sash high above her waist.  
“You look nice,” she barely managed to say through her strangled throat before a sharp knock at the door cut through their isolation.  
“Héloïse?” came the deep, troubled voice that only Lovejoy could procure.  
Héloïse grabbed Marianne’s hand and whisked her into the adjoining room.  
“My drawings!” Marianne whispered urgently but there was no time. They swept hurriedly from room to room, closing the doors quietly behind them, until they had made it to the main hallway. They walked with wide smiles, relieved and appreciating their freedom. It had been a narrow miss. They heard a door open in the corridor behind them, and turned, catching sight of Lovejoy poking out. They quickened their pace suddenly, and heard the footsteps behind them quicken too. Héloïse shrieked aloud and they grabbed hands, breaking into a dashing run, faces split into wide grins.  
They skidded around corners, legs pumping, until they reached an elevator that was just going down.  
“Wait!” called Héloïse.  
The two scrambled into the elevator, pulling the grate closed desperately behind them.  
“Go, go, go! Down, down, down!” Their panicked voices pitched as they heard Lovejoy’s pounding footsteps racing towards them.  
Lovejoy didn’t make it in time, and slammed his hands against the grate as Marianne and Héloïse were sinking below. Héloïse flashed him the middle finger, smiling smugly and they broke into peals of laughter.  
When the grate opened on another level, they nearly fell out in their hastiness, launching into a passing servant. “Hey!” he barked at them. “Sorry!” Marianne cried, mid-laughing as they stumbled away.  
They streaked down hallways, through double doors and down tumbling staircases, in a fit of laughter and chaos.  
They finally stopped, leaning against a wall in a deserted corridor to catch their breath.  
“Pretty tough for a valet, this fella,” Marianne managed to say through laughter and laboured breathing. “He seems more like a _cop_.”  
“I think he _was_ ,” Héloïse chuckled.  
Through the circular, glass hole of the double door, they saw Lovejoy appear, and look in their direction.  
“Oh, _shit_ ,” Marianne panted, and all hell broke loose yet again. Héloïse screamed with exhilaration as they pelted down the hallway. They were on the very bottom of the ship, where the passageways led who knows where, and were most likely the servant’s quarters. They careened around a corner only to find it was a dead end.  
“No, over here!” Marianne cried as she spotted a door. They jammed into it, colliding, then lurched the door closed behind them. They stood in a small, smoky room, with the deafening roar of the engines below them. A small opening revealed that they were directly above the engine room, and only a short drop would get them there.  
“Now what?” Héloïse cried, her hands pressed over her ears.  
“What?” Marianne yelled back.  
They were cornered. There was only one option: below.  
They dropped into the engine room. It was less like a room and more like the hot, steaming underbelly of the entire ship. It was tight with groaning machinery and soot-covered men, yelling to each other in rowdy voices.  
“Hold up! What you two doing down here?” a man, slick with sweat appeared, his t-shirt pressed to his chest like another layer of skin.  
Héloïse grabbed Marianne’s coat collar and they staggered into a run.  
“It could be dangerous! Oy!” the man called out after them.  
The hem of Héloïse’s dress whirled behind her like writhing fog.  
“Carry on! Don’t mind us!” Marianne called out as they passed sweaty workmen. “You’re doing a great job, keep up the good work!”  
They careened away, through red smoke and steam until it melted away behind them.  
They entered a new door, into what appeared to be a gigantic storage room. Huge piles of boxes covered in netting were stocked to the ceiling, completely filling the room. They weaved through the labyrinth of boxes until they suddenly spotted an automobile in the middle of the room.  
“Ah, look what we have here,” Marianne breathed as they made their way towards it.  
It was a blooming red automobile, a Renault Type Coupé de Ville. It was a beautiful thing but neither of them cared much about its quality; they would have been equally delighted if it had been a beaten up carriage.  
Héloïse cleared her throat pointedly.  
Marianne moved and opened to the door of the carriage for her.   
“Thank you,” she replied seriously, taking Marianne’s proffered hand and stepping up into the vehicle’s backseat.   
Marianne closed the door behind her and hopped into the driver’s seat. She placed her hands on the steering wheel and gave a loud honk, grinning to herself. Héloïse slid down the glass partition that separated the driver and the passenger and settled her forearms on the cushion.  
“Where to, miss?” Marianne asked.  
Héloïse leaned down, her lips brushing against her ear, and whispered in a low, spine-tingling voice: “To the stars.”  
Marianne turned her face towards hers and suddenly, Héloïse was grabbing her by the arms and hoisting her over the partition and into the vehicle. They laughed, falling against each other in a messy tangle, pressed against each other in the tight space. Marianne slid her arm over Héloïse’s shoulder, pulling her closer. They interlocked their hands, faces awash with sweat, hair unkempt.  
“You nervous?” Marianne murmured with a smile.   
Héloïse’s face was, for the first time for a lengthy period, starkly serious. “No,” she murmured, and it had been uttered so quietly, it was just barely heard.  
Marianne knew what she felt, and she felt it deeply too, like a crashing wave that left her breathless. It ached under her skin, constantly heightening and building, pounding in her lower stomach. Desire.  
It gleamed in their uncontrolled, radiant eyes. Héloïse leaned her head against Marianne’s shoulder, taking her hand and repeatedly began to press soft kisses to the very tips of her artist fingers. The smile had dissolved from Marianne’s lips as she watched this, until their gazes slid to meet the others, faces turned towards each other.  
Eternity dangled in that moment. Their entire lives were compressed into the space between each other.  
“Put your hands on me, Marianne,” Héloïse whispered.  
Héloïse guided Marianne’s hand to her covered chest, and Marianne immediately leaned down, connecting their lips. They kissed urgently, passionately, hearts racing. They burned with a deep, unraveling desire, an overwhelming passion. Héloïse began to lean downwards, pulling Marianne with her, welcoming the weight.  
There were a surge of connected moments, each dripping into the next; Marianne’s lips against Héloïse’s neck, her hands on her waist, and Héloïse’s hand, pressed against the glass, slick with steam, her fingers curling, leaving a wet handprint in the condensation as her hand fell away. The pressure being released.  
Marianne breathed hard to catch her breath, sucking lungfuls of desperate air to her robbed lungs, as her face hung suspended above Héloïse’s. Their skin glistened with warm sweat, hair wet and pressed against their flush faces. Héloïse placed her hand against Marianne’s heated cheek, holding her, with wonder.  
“You’re trembling,” she murmured.  
“Don’t worry,” Marianne said in a breathless, smiling whisper, “I’ll be all right.” She inhaled deeply, then leaned forwards and kissed Héloïse again.  
When they separated, Héloïse slowly moved the damp hair from Marianne’s forehead and pressed a tender, swollen kiss there. Marianne let her head fall gently on Héloïse’s chest.  
They lay, nestled there, catching their breath, holding onto each other for dear life, wholly untouched by any aspect of the outside world. The world was composed of only them, the cells that formed their bodies, and each tingle of exposed skin.  
Cal was just now opening the safe. He pulled out the nude drawing of Héloïse and a small note on Titanic stationary written in Héloïse’s handwriting.  
The words read: “Darling, now you can keep us both in your safe. Héloïse”.  
He crumpled the note in his fury, then grabbed the drawing, as though to do the same. He paused, hesitating, then a smirk mutilated his firm lips.  
“I have a better idea.”  
Seamen walked into the storage room, searching for them. They saw the sweaty handprint on the automobile’s condensation and stiffened with surprise, then lurched to the door. A man threw the door open, calling out a haughty “gotcha!”, but he spoke into an empty vehicle. There was nobody there.  
Marianne and Héloïse broke out into the cold night air, laughing raucously. They twirled, lurching, now clothed but still unstable on their heavy limbs.  
“Those guys’ faces!” Marianne laughed. “Did you see them?” she was hiccuping with laughter, and Héloïse placed her fingers against her lips, stopping her. Both of their breathing rhythms calmed, as they stood, holding each other tightly as the night breeze swept a refreshing chill against their skin.  
“When the ship docks, I’m getting off with you,” Héloïse said.  
“This is crazy,” Marianne breathed.  
She laughed. “I know. It doesn’t make any sense.” She latched harder onto Marianne, her hand cupping the back of her neck. “That’s why I trust it.”  
They kissed fiercely, awash in the new fortune of their uncertain future. Nothing was certain, except the weight of their lips.  
There was a sudden, deep shudder, breaking their kiss apart as the ground pitched unsteadily beneath their feet. The railing rattled. A far-off screeching cut through the air, a wailing.   
They stared up into the clear night sky, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Beside the ship suddenly appeared a monstrous, jagged mansion of ice, skidding by. Marianne grabbed Héloïse and swept her behind her protectively, yelling “get back!” A thousand, coffee-table sized chunks of ice came crashing onto the desk where they had been standing.  
They stared, open-mouthed with astonishment as the hulk of ice went gliding by.  
“Come on!” Marianne slipped across the unstable deck towards the starboard railing. She grasped on tight, staring with foggy apprehension as the ice went sailing into the night behind them.  
“Could it have damaged the ship?” Héloïse asked cautiously.  
“It didn’t seem like much of a bump. I’m sure we’re okay.” Marianne felt the words leave her mouth, and she believed them, but all the same, her stomach was heavy with unease and alarm. It had been too close for comfort.

Whether they knew it or not, they would have a long night ahead of them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi sorry for such a late update!!! i got severe writer's block (which is partially why this is written so poorly) and school started up again 

The two women walked hand in hand down the carpeted corridor, approaching Héloïse’s stateroom and Lovejoy, who was guarding it.  
Only several minutes earlier, they had been standing on the deck, believing that all was well. It was only until the captain had walked by with both the ship’s architect and carpenter that they made out the panic in their voices and knew things were going to be bad.  
Héloïse had immediately suggested they tell the news to her mother and Cal. Marianne, begrudging but supportive, had agreed.  
“We’ve been looking for you,” Lovejoy said as they reached him, his features twisted into a look of smug satisfaction.   
He walked closely behind them, his hot breath on the back of Marianne’s neck.  
“Here we go,” Héloïse murmured as they reached the door to their stateroom.  
They entered the room, looking solid and brave, despite the fear that pitched in Marianne’s stomach as she held hands with Héloïse in front of her family, and fiance.   
Cal was looking furious and Marianne’s stomach gave a nervous jump.  
“Something serious has happened,” Héloïse began.  
“Yes, it has,” Cal interrupted, looking meaningfully at Lovejoy who began moving into the light. “Two things dear to me have disappeared this evening. Now that one is back,” he looked at Héloïse with unflinching anger, “I have a pretty idea where to find the other.” Now it was Marianne’s turn to feel squeamish as he placed his gaze on her. “Search her!” he commanded.  
“Take your coat off, ma’am,” two stewards surged to take off Marianne’s coat as she scowled and flinched. The men began patting her down.  
“Cal, what are you doing? We’re in the middle of an emergency, what’s going on?” Héloïse demanded.  
One of the men procured the jeweled necklace from Marianne’s coat pocket. “Is this it?”  
Marianne felt a sudden wave of shock crash into her chest. “This is horseshit!” She cried angrily.   
Héloïse was staring at her with large, stunned eyes.  
“Don’t you believe it, Héloïse,” Marianne cried, her voice breaking in its anger and misery as her hands were thrust into handcuffs for the second time. “Don’t!”  
“She couldn’t have,” Héloïse said, but the words fell flat.  
“Of course she could, it’s easy enough for a professional,” Cal said.  
“But I was with her the whole time,” Héloïse said. “This is absurd.”  
“Come on,” spoke one of the stewards behind Marianne’s back.  
“Perhaps she did it while you were putting your clothes back on, dear,” Cal muttered venomously into her ear.  
Héloïse was staring at Marianne in horror.  
“Real slick, they put it in my pocket,” Marianne whispered urgently to Héloïse.  
“Shut up!” Cal commanded fiercely.   
“It’s not even your pocket,” Lovejoy spat, holding the label up to the light. “‘Property of A.L. Ryerson’.”  
“That was reported stolen today,” a steward confirmed.  
This time, Marianne couldn’t argue. She found Héloïse’s uncertain, hurt gaze. “I just borrowed it, I was going to return it.”  
“Ah, an honest thief!” Cal boomed.  
“You know I didn’t do this, Héloïse,” Marianne whispered imploringly, angrily. “You know it!”  
Héloïse stared back stonily, betrayed.  
“Don’t believe them, you know I didn’t do it!” The steward began hauling her from the room. Even so, she continued, her voice’s volume rising with frustration as she struggled against the burly man, “You know I didn’t do it! Héloïse!”  
Even once she was out in the hallway, she called out, “you know I didn’t do it! You know me!”  
It was no use.

There was an hour left on the clock.

Marianne found her new residence in a small, locked office, her hands handcuffed around a water pipe. The steward was removing the handcuff key from the lock when a crewman ran into the room.  
“Sir! They need you up at the Purser, sir, there’s a big mob up there.”  
Lovejoy entered behind him. “Go on. I’ll keep an eye on her.” He pulled an automatic from out of his coat and twirled it in the air, proving his point. The key was tossed to him. As the men urgently left the room, he slowly went and sat in the chair, settling the gun on his lap.  
The next fifteen minutes crept by tediously slowly. Her thoughts were on Héloïse. Only, Héloïse. Only ever her. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have believed them? Marianne’s teeth clenched when she thought of Cal whispering lowly in her ear, his lips hissing words she hadn’t been able to make out. She wanted to give him one, solid push into the icy waters below; there was no way he’d be able to survive the frigid temperature for long.   
Even so, Marianne’s frustrations and anger always faded and returned to the one thing that made her heart skip a beat: the time she had spent with Héloïse. From their first, sunset soaked kiss to the session in the automobile, their embraces, their kisses, their promises. They were the most tender moments of Marianne’s life. And it had all been ripped away so fast.  
Marianne watched from the porthole as a flare erupted in the sky, echoing in her ears. The water was creeping up past the eye-level porthole when Lovejoy spoke out.  
“You know, I do believe this ship may sink,” he drawled smugly. He stood up and approached Marianne’s shackled figure. “I’ve been asked to give you this small token of our appreciation,” he said, and suddenly his fist whammed into Marianne’s stomach. The breath was abruptly stolen from her lungs as she doubled over, gritting her teeth in pain and sinking to the ground in a crouched position.  
“Complements of Mr Caledon Hockley.” He picked up the key and slipped it into his jacket pocket and left the room.   
Marianne was still grimacing in pain ten minutes later. Her ribs felt bruised. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to dwell on it. The water had reached far above the porthole and her heart levels were rising with it.  
“Hello? Can anybody hear me?” she yelled, clanging her metal handcuffs against the water pipe. “Hello! Help me!” Her voice was screeching, pitching off the walls and reverberating back to her. It felt as though she was screaming into an empty void and nobody could hear her. She was stuck. Nevertheless, she continued. She was sweaty and exhausted when she stopped to breathe. “This could be bad,” she said to herself. She turned, and saw water pouring underneath the door. “Oh, shit,” she shrieked. “Ah, shit!” The desk was next to her and she clambered onto it, still attached to the water pipe. She hoisted herself up and began wrenching at the water pipe, trying to break free, bracing herself against the wall. She tugged mercilessly at her handcuffs until her wrists were splotched with bruises, screaming with fierce passion, as the water lifted to her ankles.  
She suddenly heard the faintest hint of her name, carried from far away. Her head lifted with hope. There, she heard it again.  
“Héloïse!” She yelled, her throat burning in pain.  
“Marianne!”  
“Héloïse! I’m down here!”  
Suddenly the door opened, and Héloïse waded into the room, the water up to her knees. “I’m sorry!” she cried, gasping. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”  
Marianne was so delighted to see her, every worry that had plagued her mind slipped away. Héloïse reached her and kissed her desperately, then Marianne jerked away.  
“That jerk Lovejoy put it in my pocket!” she said, the words stumbling quickly off her tongue in her desperation to get them out.  
“I know, I know, I know!” Héloïse wailed, clinging Marianne closer.  
“Listen, Héloïse, you’re gonna have to find a spare key, alright?” her voice was hoarse and thick with the exertion of relentlessly screaming. “Look in that cabinet right there!” she cried, motioning towards a cabinet across the room.  
Héloïse splashed towards it.  
“It’s a little silver one!”  
Her heart was racing.  
Héloïse was fumbling through them, then cried, “These are all brass ones!”  
“Check right here,” she cried, kicking out at the drawer of the desk beside her. She wrenched it open, rifling through it fiercely.  
“Héloïse.”  
She whirled around.  
“How did you find out I didn’t do it?”  
Héloïse’s lips trembled. “I didn’t. I just realized I already knew.”  
There was a quiet pause, amid the rising water and their pounding brains, where everything quieted and they gazed at each other. Marianne had never felt such deep longing. She yearned for a day where they were not up to their knees in icy water, where they were not trapped on a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean, where they were not constrained by society’s rules and measurements, where they could be free and in love.  
Marianne was jolted back to reality as the water crept an inch higher.  
“There’s no key!” Héloïse cried desperately.   
“Alright, Héloïse, listen. You’re going to have to go and find some help. It’ll be all right.”  
Héloïse’s face was pale and shaky. She waded back to Marianne and placed a kiss on her lips. “I’ll be right back.”  
“I’ll just wait here!” Marianne called back, somewhat dryly.  
Each minute that passed was an hour. The water was gushing into the room like a waterfall, and was steadily overtaking the space left in the room. Marianne had to clamber onto the tall desk, her head bent, and even still the water rose to her feet.  
Suddenly, she heard the sound of Héloïse’s voice and whirled around to see her entering the room, waist-deep in the water.  
“Will this work?” she cried out in a strangled voice. She held up a large axe, eyes blazing with passion.  
Marianne stared at it, half in shock and half in amusement. “I guess we’ll find out.” She prepared her handcuffs, her hands as wide apart as they could go. Héloïse lifted her arm with the axe in hand.  
“Wait, wait, wait! Try a couple practice swings over there,” she nodded to the other side of the room. The look in Héloïse’s eye, combined with the dangerous tool in her hand was beginning to scare her.  
Héloïse moved towards a floating cabinet and swung the axe, making a sizable hole.  
“Good! Now try and hit the same mark again. You can do it!”  
She swung again, this time hitting an entirely different part of the cabinet.  
“Okay,” Marianne said, her heart pumping. “That’s enough practice. Come on, we can do it! Listen, just hit it really hard and really fast.” She could see the panicked look in Héloïse’s face, the fear. Her lips were trembling and were tinged blue with cold. “Listen, Héloïse, I trust you.” She took a deep breath. “Go!” She looked away, screwing her face up in fear. There was the sound of an axe wooshing through air, then a loud metal clang, a shriek, and a release. Marianne looked up in awe, separating her hands freely. They began screaming.  
“You did it, Héloïse!” They embraced each other, and Marianne felt her wet, cold clothing stick to her skin like a layer of ice. She shivered. “Come on! Let’s go!” She hopped off of the desk and sunk into the water next to Héloïse and shuddered as the icy cold water washed over her. “Shit, this is cold!” She began cursing loudly as she followed Héloïse out of the room and into the passageway outside.  
Lightbulbs flickered dangerously along the ceiling. The water was much swifter and higher here, almost ceiling-level. Up the hall, the water deepened, and rushed with absolute fever. There was no way they would be able to cross it.  
“That’s the way out!” Héloïse cried.  
“We have to find another way,” Marianne yelled, moving in the opposite direction. They splashed through the bitter water. Marianne’s skin was pulsing with cold fear and her fingertips were tinged with blue. If there was one thing she knew, it was that this water was dangerous.   
They made it around the corner and spotted a staircase leading up to a closed door. They scrambled up it, but when they reached the door and twisted the doorknob, the door refused to budge.  
“Come on!”   
They railed against the door, ramming against it with every force in their bodies, until suddenly they broke through.  
“What do you think you’re doing?!” A steward stared incredulously at them as they jaggedly stumbled past. “You’re going to have to pay for that, ya know! That’s White Star Line property!”  
Marianne and Héloïse whirled around simultaneously and shouted, “shut up!”   
The man stopped short, shock blistering across his face.  
Marianne led her onwards and they joined the steerage stragglers going above. Large families carried their heavy luggage with tight knuckles.  
They careened around a corner and towards the stairs leading upwards. A massive gathering of third class passengers struggled on the steps.   
“What’s going on?”  
It appeared that the ship crew and stewards were not allowing any of the third class passengers above and a riot had ensued with men struggling against the barrier, shouting and whirling insults.  
A man from the very front moved backwards, his sweaty hair plastered across his forehead.  
“Marianne!”  
“Tommy!” Marianne cried, recognizing him as one of Sophie’s friends. “Can we get out?”  
“It’s hopeless that way!”  
“Well, whatever we’re goin’ to do, we’ve gotta do it fast.”  
Sophie surged from out of the crowd, her voice shrill. “Marianne!”  
“Sophie!” They crashed into a warm hug.  
“The boats are all gone,” Sophie cried.  
“This whole place is flooding, we’ve got to get out of here.”  
“There’s nowhere to go!”  
“Let’s go this way, all right?” Marianne lead them away.

They reached another gate, but the stewards were just as resolute in unallowing those to escape. Marianne grabbed a bench and with the help of fellow passengers, ripped it from the ground. Everyone moved aside and they propelled it forward, smashing it into the barrier. It didn’t work. “Again!” They tried again, and this time, the gate broke apart. 

They ran up a narrow staircase to reach the upper decks. Even before they’d reached the top of the steps, they could make out the screaming. The frigid night air soon washed over them as they broke out into the open.  
The deck was teeming with a frenzy of people, hurtling in every direction, expressions streaked with panic. Shots from a gun ripped through the air.  
“The boats are gone!” Marianne wasn’t sure who had cried out the words, but she knew that it had occurred to her at the same time as it had to Héloïse.  
“Colonel!” Héloïse spoke, spotting the squat man and his wife coming from the other side of the ship. “Are there any boats on that side?”  
“No, miss, but there are a couple boats on the far end.”  
They started running before he could utter another word.  
The musicians were standing on the deck, violins posed, and broke into the song “Orpheus in the underworld: Overture” by Jacques Offenback as they hurtled past. It was an eerie, haunting sound amid the frightened screams and shouts whirling through the air.  
The running women reached the far side of the ship, where people were colliding against each other in their desperate attempts to board one of the last available lifeboats.  
A steward screamed above the noise, “first class passengers only! Women and children first!”  
Marianne looked to Héloïse and noticed that her attention was fastened on a gangly young father and his infant daughter.   
“It's goodbye for a little while. Only a little while,” he was saying, his voice screechy and pitchy.  
Héloïse whirled around. “I’m not going without you.”  
“No, you have to go. Now.” Marianne couldn’t do this. Not now. Héloïse’s stubbornness would be the death of them.  
“No.”  
“Get in the boat, Héloïse,” she pleaded.  
“No.”  
“Yes. Get on the boat!”  
“Yes, get on the boat,” Cal appeared over Marianne’s shoulder. His cold voice caused goosebumps to appear on her forearms. “My god, look at you, you look a fright. Put this on,” he said, throwing a man’s jacket over Héloïse’s shoulders. She was viewing him with a mixture of shock and disgust.  
Marianne pulled her a short distance away. “Go on. I'll get the next one.”  
“No. Not without you.”  
Marianne forced a tone of confidence and strength into her shaky voice. “I'll be alright. I'll be fine. I'm a survivor, all right? Don’t worry about me, now go on.”  
Cal spoke again. “I have an arrangement with an officer on the other side of the ship. Marianne and I can get on safely. Both of us.”   
Heloise stared at him, uncomprehending.  
Marianne felt her stomach twist. He was lying and she knew it. She swallowed and faced Héloïse. “See? I got my own boat to catch.”  
“Step aboard, miss.” A steward reached out to help Héloïse board the boat. She allowed him to.  
Marianne reached out to help her make it across safely. Héloïse turned around as soon as her feet had landed, and grabbed Marianne’s outstretched hand. They fumbled, then the connection broke.  
The lifeboat began its shuddering descent. Marianne gazed at Héloïse, unable to look away. This could be it. Forever.  
“You're a good liar,” Cal said in a low voice beside her.  
“Almost as good as you. There's no arrangement, uh, is there?”  
“No, there is. Not that you'll benefit from it much anyway. I always win, Marianne. One way or another.”  
Marianne turned to look at him. He was right, in a sick and twisted sense. Men always did win in this world. The game was built for them, but she would play by her own rules.  
She turned back towards Héloïse who was slowly sinking below them in the crammed lifeboat. Their connected gazes whispered words to each other that they never had been able to say and never would.  
Marianne gave a small nod of reassurement.  
In an instant, Héloïse suddenly pulled herself back onboard at a lower landing, nearly tumbling into the waves below in the attempt.  
“No!” the cry was ripped from Marianne’s lungs so roughly, she felt her voice go raspy again. “Heloise! Stop her! What are you doing!”  
She wrenched away from the deck and began running. All she could do was run.  
She ran throughout the ship, through hallways and doorways, then down staircases, until she reached the grand staircase where she had met Héloïse for dinner. From around the corner, Héloïse came running. They embraced.  
Marianne felt herself yelling into Héloïse’s neck. She wasn’t so sure what she was saying anymore. “Why'd you do that, huh? Why'd you do that?” They kissed each other in between Marianne’s hoarse words.  
Héloïse broke apart. “You jump, I jump, right?”  
Marianne’s lips broke into a helpless smile. “Right.”  
They hugged each other so hard Marianne felt as though her ribs would pop.  
“Oh god, I couldn't go,” Héloïse cried.  
“That's okay, we’ll think of something.”  
Marianne caught sight of Cal suddenly appearing over the balcony above, a pistol in his hand and a dark, unthinkable fury in his eyes. Marianne grabbed Héloïse and lurched away as a shot rang through the air.  
This time, she knew danger had never been closer.  
Cal was trying to kill them.


	7. Chapter 7

They ran.  
All Marianne knew was the pounding of her brain, her feet, the wet floor and suddenly her wet feet, everything was wet. The sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears, Héloïse’s laboured breathing, their gasps, the endless passageways and halls.  
At some point, they lost him. He’d shot at them several more times, missing each time. But Marianne had heard the bullet strike something and whatever it was had been too close.  
They finally ran up a set of steps that would lead them to the upper deck and fresh air. The water was rising to their waists and their hearts were hammering. They found the gate at the top was barred, with no other way to go on. They screamed, rattling the gate, voices careening off of the walls. Marianne felt herself losing hope. After all they had been through, this was how they were going to die? Inches away from freedom with only one locked gate restricting them? It was ironic, really. Fitting.  
A steward ran past and caught sight of them, stumbling. He was about to scramble away again, but hesitated. They yelled louder and he finally conceded with an exasperated, “Bloody hell!”  
He scrambled with his keys to open the gate but dropped them. The water was now chest high.  
“I’m sorry, I dropped the keys!” he gave them one last, panicked look, and ran away.  
“Wait, please!”  
Marianne ducked under the water, reached under the gate and scrabbled for the key.  
The water was almost up to their shoulders when she submerged, victorious.  
She fumbled to open it as the water rose steadily, up to their chins. She heard Héloïse screaming in her ear to hurry.  
Finally, she heard the satisfying sound of the gate unlocking. They pitched forward and lunged out into the clear, freezing night.  
“We have to stay on the ship as long as possible!”  
Everyone else seemed to have the same idea.  
The ship was dipping fast, one side plummeting into the ocean and the other leaning heavily as if reaching for the sky with outstretched fingers. Passengers were flooding to the other end of the ship, as far as possible from the submerging end.  
They struggled through the crowds, hands interlocked. Never letting go.  
It became harder and harder to walk. People had begun to throw themselves into the water below, plummeting as though they were weightless.  
They finally reached the stern. They latched onto the railing, shuddering with gasps. They had mere minutes before the stern would be under water, too. Two minutes, to be exact.   
Misty clouds came from their parted lips.   
Héloïse looked up at Marianne and almost smiled. “This is where we first met.” It was laughable, almost. That only a couple days ago, Héloïse had been dangling over the very edge they were fighting to hold onto now.  
Marianne pressed a clumsy kiss to Héloïse’s forehead. It said more than her words could.  
People had begun to slide down the length of the ship.  
The ship went dark. The floorboards began to rip upward. Glass shattering. The ship was breaking in half. Ear splitting cracks, mixed with screams, rose into the air as the ship splintered and moaned. The two halves peeled apart like an orange peel. The stern, that had been the highest portion of the ship until that moment, began to fall. It thundered downwards, until it slammed against the ocean’s surface.  
It bobbed on the water for a short moment’s time, then began pitching upwards again as the bow of the ship began to be swallowed up by the water. Men and women went rolling down the ship, crashing heavily, becoming insignificant heaps of clothing and skin tossed into the ravenous waves.  
“We have to move!”  
Marianne and Héloïse had found themselves on the wrong end of the railing. It was wet and slippery with seafoam and sweat, and soon, gravity would cause them to be holding on by only their fingers. They had to clamber onto the other side.  
Marianne grabbed the flagpost and whirled herself over, safely onto the other side. “Give me your hand, I’ll pull you over!”  
Héloïse grunted with exertion, reaching out her hand.   
Marianne gripped it tightly. “I’ve got you! I won’t let go!”  
She was reminded, suddenly, of their first interaction together. Those exact same words had passed her lips then, too.

_Héloïse sought purchase on the slick railing, lost her footing and tumbled further, her feet twisting above the black waves below.  
“Help! Please!” Her piercing screams rattled Marianne’s brain at such close distance.  
“Listen!” Marianne cried firmly. “Listen. I’ve got you. I won’t let go.” For an instant, the world quieted and there was a mutual exchange between their two frantic gazes— one of trust. “Now pull yourself up! Come on!”_

With a tumble of confused, heavy movements, Marianne pulled Héloïse onto the other side. Their bodies were so close, packed against each other like beached whales, that she could almost hear the sound of Héloïse’s breathing amid the screams that had devastated her head for the past half hour.  
The ship was now entirely perpendicular. It stood upright like a tottering child’s first unstable step.  
“What’s happening?”  
“I don’t know!”  
There was an eerie silence, and then the people began to fall. Only one at first, then a whole rush, here and there, jagged limbs and torn screams.  
Marianne couldn’t look at Héloïse, didn’t want to see the horror that resided there.  
The ship began to groan loudly, inching downwards. Sinking.  
“This is it,” Marianne cried.  
Héloïse’s knuckles were pure white as she gripped the barrier. “Oh god! Oh god!”  
Marianne slid one arm protectively over Héloïse, latching onto a rung beside her. “Hold on!”  
It was all happening so fast now. Down, down, down it went. Like the ocean was sucking on a straw.  
“The ship is gonna suck us down. Take a deep breath when I say.”  
They dropped like an elevator. Marianne yelled above the wind, ship and screams.   
“Kick for the surface and keep kicking! Do not let go of my hand. We’re going to make it, Héloïse. Trust me.” She looked over at Héloïse, who returned the look.  
“I trust you.”  
The ocean was so close they could feel the spray on their cheeks.  
“Ready? Ready?” And then, the final word: “Now!”  
They both sucked air into their lungs, pressed their lips shut, and they were sucked down beneath the ocean’s surface.  
It was beyond freezing. The world was dark, but mercifully silent. The cold staggered through Marianne’s skin, her heart skipping a beat. Her limbs seemed to forget how to move, and then just as fast, she began to furiously kick. Her hand was still encased in Héloïse’s, but the water’s powerful grip was making it difficult to hold on. They scrabbled through the water, fighting to find the surface. Marianne tried to heave the two of them upwards, but their hands broke apart, and she lost her.  
All she could do was reach the surface and hope she found Héloïse there. She kicked and kicked, until finally her head broke the surface, and painfully cold air filled her lungs. She looked around desperately. “Héloïse? Héloïse!” she called, her chest raw and scratchy.  
The noise was deafening. Shattering, wailing screams. Limbs flailing. The air was thick with everyone’s breathing and splashing. Everyone was packed so tightly together. How in the world would she find Héloïse in this confusion? All the same, she continued to scream her name.  
At long last, she caught sight of her. A man had seized onto her head and was using her as a way of staying afloat. She was sputtering and flailing under his strong grip.  
“Get off of her!” Marianne yelled, stroking through the water towards them. She landed a heavy punch in the square of his face and he went careening away, blood oozing.  
“I need you to swim!” The two women battled through the icy water, aching, but fighting. They swam through the bodies until they’d reached the outskirts. Wreckage from the ship bobbed like broken souvenirs.  
Marianne spotted a door. The wood was swollen and peeling with water, but it would suffice, at least for now. “Here, get on it.”  
Héloïse heaved herself onto it, gasping. Marianne followed. As she pulled herself onto the door, the unbalanced proportions caused it to pitch forwards, sending them back into the water with a lurch.  
Once it had steadied, the two women pulled themselves back on, and this time it didn’t throw them off. They panted for air, desperate and frozen. Marianne looked at Héloïse’s face; her eyelashes were delicately frosted and lips puffy with cold.  
What she didn’t realize was that Héloïse wasn’t fully aboard the door. She’d pulled her upper body atop, making it appear to Marianne’s limited perspective, as though she was also benefiting from the door. But from the waist down, she was still fully submerged. It was the only way they were able to both support themselves on it without the unbalanced weight throwing them off. Their faces were close together, sticky breathing intermingling.  
“You all right?” Marianne managed to murmur.  
A high pitched whistle screeched through the air. An officer, clutching to a nearby piece of debris, let out another piercing shriek from his metal whistle.  
“The boats will come back for us,” Marianne said. “Hold on just a little longer.”  
Héloïse was strangely quiet, her breathing unmistakably shallow, chattering violently. Her face had a strange, skeleton-like quality to it, the cheeks sunken and hollow, her face stretched thin and white as chalk.  
The sound of tormented souls rose up around them, as though they’d landed in the underworld.  
At one point, the man stopped whistling. When Marianne looked over, his eyes were closed, his lips still closed around the whistle.  
“It’s getting quiet,” Héloïse finally murmured. Her voice was soft, like rose petals.  
“I don’t know about you, but I intend to write a strongly worded letter to the White Star Line about all this.” Marianne made an effort to smile dryly. She was unaware of the change occurring in Héloïse, the softening and loosening of her body as death inched closer.  
Her voice had reached an entirely new level of softness, when she whispered, “I love you, Marianne.”   
Marianne stared at her. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you say your goodbyes. Not yet. Do you understand me?”  
“I’m so cold,” she whispered, her voice sweet and delicate. The fiery passion had melted away in the cold.  
“Listen, you’re going to get out of here. You’re going to go on and you’re going to die an old lady, warm in her bed. Not here. Not this night.”  
Héloïse was shivering uncontrollably. Her voice came as though from a long distance away. “I can’t feel my body.” Her hair was freezing, chunks of ice forming in the dusty blond strands.   
“Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Marianne managed, her voice shaking, not from the cold but the emotion. She could see the frailty in Héloïse’s complexion, the fragility, the fire in her eyes slowly departing. “It brought me to you,” she whispered. A sob lurched from her throat. “And I’m thankful for that, Héloïse.”  
A weak smile, a sputter of life. Their hands were wrapped tightly around the other’s.  
“You must do me this honor,” Héloïse whispered, with sudden renewed passion. “You must promise me that you’ll survive. That you won’t give up. No matter what happens. No matter how hopeless. Promise me now, Marianne. And never let go of that promise.”  
“I promise.”  
“Never let go.”  
“I’ll never let go. I’ll never let go.”  
Héloïse pressed her shaking lips to their clasped hands, one last kiss. Their foreheads bent together, touching, as though by instinct.   
They could see the stars reflected in the glassy, midnight water.

Marianne lay on her back, sprawled messily aboard the door, with her head turned to the sky. All she could hear was Héloïse’s soft, broken voice.  
“ _Come Josephine, in my flying machine. Going up she goes, up she goes._ ” Her voice died away.  
Marianne felt a small splash of light on her face. She tore her gaze from the sky, turning her head to the side. Her frosty hair crunched softly. A small lifeboat was slipping noiselessly through the water with a light shining like a beacon through the water of dead bodies. It was surreal, and strangely heavenly.  
“Héloïse,” Marianne whispered, shaking their clasped hand. There was no response. Marianne tried again. “Héloïse.” She slowly lifted her head, turning to face Héloïse. It was then that she saw. Her elbows lolled on the wood, and her head lay nested on her arms, but aside from that, she was entirely submerged in the water.  
Throughout the time that they had been clinging to the door, Héloïse had been sinking slowly deeper and deeper into the water without Marianne’s noticing.   
Her eyes were closed, her lips unmoving. Frost covered her cheeks.  
“Héloïse,” she whispered again, rattling her hand. An edge of panic rose in her chest. “Héloïse, there’s a boat.” She stared at her lifeless form, unable to recognize what she was seeing. “Héloïse?” she whispered imploringly. She whispered her name again, and then again, becoming more confused and furious. “There’s a boat, Héloïse.” The sound that came out of her mouth was strangled, barely intelligible enough to be words. She began to cry. She slowly dropped her head onto their hands. She couldn’t do this without Héloïse. She was giving up.  
Memories swept across her like crashing waves, dunking her under. She remembered. The wind whipping through their hair. The salty ocean spray on their  
lips. Their walks. The longing. The desire. A paint-caked hand. The taste of her lips. It pummeled against her, the remembrance. She breathed in jaggedly. The pain was curt and unpromising, swelling and surging. The sadness built on her shoulders, crushing. She began to sob.   
She could hear Héloïse’s voice in her head. “ _You must promise me that you’ll survive. That you won’t give up. No matter what happens. Never let go._ ”  
Marianne looked up and stared at the lifeboat slowly moving away. “Come back,” she said. Her voice barely made it out as a whisper. “Come back. Come back. Come back.” They couldn’t hear her.  
She detached her hand from Héloïse’s frozen grip. Slowly, the woman sunk backwards, and slipped beneath the water’s dark surface. Her face was calm, at peace.  
“I’ll never let go. I promise.”   
She sobbed as she lurched off of the door and began paddling through the icy water. She reached the man with the whistle. She took it from her lips and gave one, shrill blast. Then, another. She continued at it, shaking and sobbing, as the lifeboat slowly turned about and began making its way to her, its light encircling her like a halo. 

_“someone will remember us  
I say  
even in another time”_

_**― Sappho, If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho** _


End file.
